


Gone Is Not A Synonym For Forgotten

by Oboeist3



Category: Ghost (music video), Ghost - Mystery Skulls (Music Video), Mystery Skulls (Band)
Genre: (Someday I'll write fluff I swear), Alluded to alcoholism and bullying, Arthur-centric, Gen, Nonspecific Anxiety Disorder Afflicted Arthur Because Reasons, Suicide, attempted suicide, semi-graphic depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories for Arthur had always been colored. Black-white. Yellow-blue. Green-grey. What follows are the tales of these memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Is Not A Synonym For Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I'm back. Didn't really plan for this to be a multi-fic investment, but what do you know? Dorito Shaggy is the bane of my existence. Just to stave off any confusion, this is a completely different universe from my other fic, but there are some similar elements. Secondly, the tense change is again intentional. Hope you enjoy and DFTBA! 
> 
> (P.S.-If enough people are interested, I might write a second chapter from Vivi's POV.)

The first time he tried, it was black-white. The black leaking in through the small grubby window, no moon tonight, the white pouring in from the hallway straight ahead, casting too long shadows across the pristine white floors, still smelling like lemon and mint.

Arthur was lying in a cot, brown eyes blasted open, unable to sleep. He stared at the speckled ceiling, fingers curling against his palm and uncurling as a sort of nervous habit. He had a lot of those. Of course, it didn't help any. Not much did, after murdering your best friend.

His gaze shifted over to his bandaged shoulder, the sleeve of the gown hanging off of it, useless. The doctors said he was lucky it was such a clean cut. Cybernetics didn't work on partial limbs.

"Lucky." he mouthed to the dark, his lips cracked from dehydration. He could call a nurse for ice chips, but it didn't seem important enough. Besides, the call button was on the left side of the bed.

The word echoed far after the sound waves dissipated into oblivion, bouncing off the walls of his mind. He was lucky. To be alive, to be fixable. Like Lewis could never be.

Arthur felt sick just at the thought of his name. Lewis, sweet, kind, brave Lewis. A gentle giant with a heart of gold and such an honest care for the three of them that he'd never felt left out. Even when he wasn't useful, which was most of the time, Lewis still smiled at him, clapped one of those large hands across his back almost painfully. Lewis thought he was important.

Now he was gone. Forever. And it was all Arthur's fault. God, the look on his face as he fell, shocked, unbelieving.

Betrayed.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by something dripping down his face. Water, he found as he wiped it off on his sleeve. He'd been crying.

For some reason, his mind thought this was hilarious, and strange hiccupy laughs tore out of his throat. A broken sound, lost almost as soon as it began.

Arthur pressed his face up against his legs, exhausted but still not enough to sleep. Not with what he knew he'd see. He had something of a photographic memory, and nightmares were pure hell because of it. Daddy's hand pulling at his hair before Mom was there to stop him, looking at Arthur with alcohol dulled eyes. Micheal Tremelo's sneer as he punched his nose - hard. Now Lewis, staring up at him as he fell to his death. He shuddered. Everything else would be nothing compared to that.

Perhaps it's only natural he started thinking about suicide. He'd never professed to be strong. He'd always been the nervous one, the anxious one. If he hadn't gotten treatment for it, pill bottle second pocket down, right side, the faded posters on the van wall, the several hundred Port Blue songs on his phone, well it could have been much worse. But like sin waves, up and down and down again, his mental state was a cycle of alternating points. With the Mystery Skulls, the highs lasted longer, the lows less severe. But now he had no such help.

It's non-surprisingly hard to find a way to kill yourself in a hospital, but Arthur was nothing if not resourceful. Vivi's tools were still there from when she showed him the prototype of his new arm, smile on her face but not quite reaching her eyes.

That's his fault too.

Carefully he stepped off the side of the cot, tile floors cool against his bare feet. At first, he nearly fell, not used to having to balance with one arm, but slowly adjusted. His steps were halting, unjointed things towards the blue box, almost like a zombie. When he reached it, he sat down, even those few steps draining. His vision was fuzzy, but he forced himself to focus.

He opened the toolbox and was disappointed by the contents. A lot of smooth-edged technological stuff. Not that useful as an implement. The best thing he could find was a normal Phillips screwdriver, blue handled of course. He spared a small smile. That was Vivi for you. Color coded everything. Not to say it hadn't been useful.

Arthur took some time to contemplate the best way to go about this. Obviously he had to chose something quick. The nurses had probably already noticed he wasn't connected anymore. The heart would be best, but there's no way he could drive the screwdriver with enough force to do enough damage. He decided the neck was his best bet. Asphyxiation only took a couple minutes and if he got his jugular, the blood loss could speed things up.

"I'm sorry." he said, not quite sure to whom, and plunged the screwdriver into his neck.

When Mystery tore off his arm in the cave, Arthur hadn't noticed the pain at first, still numb from his possession and the sight of Lewis burnt into his eyeballs. This time, he was not so lucky. The pain was red-white, searing, demanding all of the attention from his weak brain. He screamed, but it came out a low wheeze. His right hand tried to remove the intrusion, too concerned on survival to care about his wishes, but it's not enough.

The last thing he saw before the world went black were green flats rushing towards him, soaking up fresh blood like a sponge. Huh, sponge shoes. It's funny. He should tell Lewis about it.

Of course, he doesn't get the chance. Not yet.

Arthur woke up with a bandage on his neck and in a far more crowded room than before. ICU, he realized. They must have gotten to him in time. He sighed. Most of him was relieved to be alive for no particular reason at all, but deep down a small voice made a convincing argument.

_You shouldn't be here._

But he was too tired to do anything much but agree with the thought and fell asleep.

He wasn't wrong about the nightmares.

* * *

The second time he tried, it was yellow-blue, the too bright light of the hotel lamps glinting off sea blue walls. It had been one year, two months, a week, a day, and twenty-seven minutes since he last tried. Not that he was keeping track. A thin, pale scar ran down the length of his neck, once pink-red, now white. Barely noticeable.

Not gone.

More importantly, it had been approximately six hours since the van broke down in front of a purple-tinted mansion, and with nowhere else to go, they'd gone in. Approximately six hours since they'd been sung to by narrow purple-yellow ghosts, swung at by empty suits of armour, attacked by moving portraits of the long dead.

Six hours since Arthur had seen Lewis.

Of course, it wasn't the Lewis he'd known. Instead a suited skeleton with vengeance on pale features and purple hellfire in place of hair and eyes. He only said one thing to Arthur, in an echoing voice stuck between words and a shriek.

_**Fuck it's you I hate the most.** _

He still heard it now, everything about it imprinted on his brain. He hated him. Even if it made sense, even though Arthur knew it well within his right, it shattered him. Lewis hated him. Hated him so much he tried to kill him too.

He wanted to let him.

But Vivi had to mess it all up, save his life even as he pulled her away from the man she loved, ran away. Like a coward.

Six hours ago.

Now he was alone. For the first time since the cave, he and Vivi had separate rooms. She needed time to think, and what right had he not to oblige her? But Arthur was never good at being alone. With all that space, his mind suddenly felt the need to jack up the bad thoughts. And tonight they had plenty of fuel.

An orange pill bottle rested on the side table, filled to the brim with Propranolol, 80 mg tablets. He'd already taken his dose, one and a half pills today, but it's not enough to calm him. Not much could, after seeing the ghost of your best friend, the one you murdered.

He wondered how much it would take to kill him.

According to the internet, it only took a gram. Eleven more pills and it would be over.

He took thirteen, just to be safe.

Within half an hour, he started to feel woozy. Everything's slowed down, like something out of an action film. Maybe he could be a superhero, when he was dead. Go around saving people like he never could now. Maybe he could get Lewis too, best friends again. He smiled. That would be nice.

He was so lost in his dreamworld that he didn't notice he was moving, uncoordinated steps towards the bathroom. Barely noticed the feeling of cool metal fingers jamming into his mouth, kicking off his gag reflex. He did notice throwing up though, because the contents of his stomach were supposed to be green, but probably not glowing.

It doesn't really matter. When he woke up in the morning, everything was a blur. His head was pounding, and he could smell puke in the toilet next to him. He must have not been able to keep the pills down. His body didn't want him to die. He wished it did.

Still, he cleaned himself up and ate breakfast and acted like he was the same person as before the van broke down, even as Vivi poked at her eggs, (she loved eggs), and kept looking over her shoulder, like she was looking for something.

Or expecting someone.

* * *

The third time is green-grey, the only light that of the strange green fog Arthur has only even seen here, only contrasted by the nondescript grey of the cave.

Skull Cave.

Unoriginal perhaps, but certainly not inaccurate.

He's standing by the edge of the same cliff he was at one year, two months, a week, five days, seven hours and thirty-nine minutes ago. The same cliff he pushed Lewis off. It only seems fitting. A full circle of sorts.

Vivi had insisted they come back. It was Lewis, her boyfriend, his best friend. They had to go back and fix things, explain the reality behind that awful night.

He couldn't say no to her. He never could. But Arthur knew no amount of talk would change the fact it was him that pushed Lewis, even possessed, even broken - physically and mentally. He insisted she go first, smooth things over until Lewis was ready for him. If ever. She'd agreed readily enough, but Arthur wasn't content to stay in the van. So, he took a walk, and of all places, he ended up here.

It's funny, how the foreboding has vanished. For the first time in what feels like forever, he's not nervous. He knows this is the right way. Vivi and Lewis could be happy again, no Arthur dragging along behind them. God knows they'll save on food. He'll miss Mystery though. Always had a soft spot for the dog, even knowing there was something not quite normal about him.

He'll miss them too, but he can't think of that. He doesn't want to rationalize his way out of this.

"Third time's a charm." he breathes out, and leans forward.

For a second, he's falling, the spikes growing larger in his field of vision, and everything seems to be falling into place. But something stops him.

He looks up and sees his left arm still clinging to the side of the cliff, metallic fingers curling tightly into the rock. It's glowing, green even against the natural tint of the cave.

Of course. This is the ghost's cave, and Arthur was it's newest plaything. It doesn't want him to go. Well, it wasn't going to win this time.

Arthur reaches over with his right hand, yanking down his sleeve and untwisting the connectors, biting his cheek at the pain each separation brings, but not enough to stop. When he's down to one, he looks back up to see a black figure looming over him, crackling dark energy as it tries to grab him.

"Fuck you." he says, and breaks off the last connector.

The fall was faster than he imagined, almost like acceleration has picked up, but there's plenty of time for a smile to creep onto his face and for his eyes to close.

'Thank you.' he thinks, not knowing who to, as his heart pounds in his ears, louder and louder, like the best of a drum.

Finally, it stops.


End file.
